Uncommon Scents
by mrs.milfoy
Summary: Post-war riches to rags to riches Narco from yours truly. A chance discovery in a mysterious vault leads to further chance discoveries - and yes, uncommon scents. Obligatory litany of warnings? Incest, smells and smut.
1. Cedar and Supplications

Cedar and Supplications

It was late. And the manor was dim. Quiet. Draco had just awakened from that odd nap that takes one after some trauma - the lie-down like a death preview. He felt bleary still, and the death analogy only further suffocated his contentment. The stone stairs were cold neath his feet and the wood floors were no better. It was January.

He padded into the drawing room. A fire still crackled in the floo, albeit small now. The cedar log there was sweet. Draco approached the chaise in the center of the room. He swallowed, throat dry.

His mother slept in what he imagined was much the same way he did. Utterly exhausted. Less peace, more necessity. But her face was smooth, at least, free of the creases and lines he'd seen for the last several weeks. Her hair, the dithering dichotomy of dark and light that it was, tumbled off the brocade cushion and hung to the floor where it rested against scattered parchments.

He knelt and swept the tresses up. Strands of silk. Tucked them behind her head. She made no motion save for her eyes behind lightly shadowed lids. He wondered what she dreamt and sighed. His stomach growled again. It was the first time in days he'd felt close to hungry.

Standing, his knees cracked. As if he'd aged 20 years in 20 days. Perhaps he had.

Narcissa's shawl languished across the chaise back. He took hold of it, familiar with the alluring cashmere softness, and spread it over her torso, covered the shoulder bared by errant dress. The deep sanguine material fluttered like a ghost as it draped the witch and Draco caught its scent as it settled.

He inhaled deeply. Tea by the sea. He always associated this with her. The Mediterranean vacations of his childhood. Salty air and sand. White tea sweet with honey and the vaguest hint of lemon. Mint. That waft of bergamot from the orchard near their cottage.

By the time the scent had passed - a fleeting memory trapped in olfactory - he was smiling. The expression felt alien to his features. He lingered a moment longer over his matron in repose, then bent to press a lingering kiss to her temple. Close, the scent warmed by her body, he was tempted to curl into the comfort. To clutch her close and cry into cashmere saturated with reminiscence.

But he stood. Wary of emotion. Knowing that one crack - no matter how tiny - could crumble the entire facade. He wandered into the kitchen without one backward glance.

If she was aware her son had tucked her in the evening before, she did not acknowledge the knowledge. In fact when Draco entered the solarium for breakfast, Narcissa merely smiled. "Good morning," she said quietly.

"Mum." He sat across from her. Rangey and gawky. Awkward arms and legs. She wondered if he would ever truly grow into them. Doubted it. He was a product of Lucius' lovely body and her own deep (if deeply hidden) self-consciousness. A combination at odds with itself.

"Sleep well?" She knew the answer. He was far too young for the black sacks beneath his eyes.

"Yeah." He toyed with a scone. Glanced at her. "You?"

"Mm." Conveniently, she chewed. Avoidance was an art form.

Draco nodded as if this reaction was not at all unexpected. His gaze settled on the pile of parchments by the breakfast. "What's all that then?"

She touched the stack with a dismissive hand. "Some...things I must take to the solicitor today."

He nodded again. Wiped a dollop of clotted cream on a delicate doily. "I see." He sniffed. "Mother…"

Her jaw tightened. As did her fingers around a serviette. "Yes?"

"I'd like to know." He gestured amorphously. "The things that are discussed. The...the details." She blinked at him, porcelain face unreadable. "I'm his heir, aren't I? Don't I have the right to know?"

"Oh, Draco." Narcissa shook her head. Tangles - carelessly ignored - fell into her troubled visage. "I would never hide anything from you. I just…" She sighed. Rubbed tired fingers across her forehead. "I wasn't certain you would be ready for all this."

"Right." He licked his lips, eager to be understood but not entirely sure how to be clear. "I know that there are things to be cared for. Resolved. I know that...legally...it must be complex given the circumstances." He reached haltingly across the table. Covered her hand there with his own. Her skin was shockingly cold. "You've already been through so much, mum."

"If it's about that, darling have no fear." Her smile that didn't reach her eyes was bitter. A farce. "I assure you your father has involved me in far more difficult situations. Both of us for that matter. And yet I'd say we've persevered."

He wasn't prepared for the steel in her response. The not so thinly veiled resentment. It humbled him somehow. He remembered her strength. "I only meant - "

"Yes, I know what you meant." The frozen hand beneath his turned and caressed. Bitterness bled to sincerity. "Thank you, dragon. I will be glad to have you with me." Assurance delivered, she withdrew her hand. It was her brisk way. "Besides. I imagine there will be plenty of bureaucracy to daunt you. You are of age now. And, as you so aptly pointed out, his heir." Her lips thinned after the word.

Draco's brow furrowed. He'd known the relationship between his parents had grown beyond strained, but he felt stymied by the cool hate in his father's widow. He had no response. Blew on his tea before sipping.

"Well." She went on. Primly folding her hands over the parchment pile. "If you truly wish to accompany me you should bathe soon. I've...we've...an appointment at half one. At Gringott's."

"Yes, mother." No more would be said. He watched her look beyond the glass walls at the surrounding grounds. It was dead. Dry and brown. Naked trees. The snow that had fallen consistently was now a thin icy reminder that there had been beauty for a moment. But the Malfoys had missed it.

No Yule log. No crackers. No puddings. Certainly no family or friends. There had been no gifts exchanged. His mother had wraithed about fretting while his father had isolated himself so effectively it seemed even impending trials wouldn't find him.

But find him they did. And fined him, they did. No Azkaban for the Malfoy patriarch. The Wizengamot had wisely punished him where his punishment would be most assuredly felt: in his wallet.

Draco wasn't aware what the final tallies were regarding his family's galleons, but he doubted the Wizengamot had been particularly gentle in their rulings. Despite Potter's compassionate plea on Narcissa's behalf. Draco's lip curled. His mother was hailed a heroine.

And he'd been a coward. Hardly as cowardly as his suicidal father. But he'd definitely been afraid.

"Draco?"

It was probably the second time she'd spoken his name. He looked up from the floor. "Hm?"

Her mouth worked for a moment, bowed lips finding difficulty in expression. Highly irregular. "I don't know," she began. Stopped. Licked her teeth. "I don't know what sort of damages we've...incurred. The reparations. The...funeral. The manor…"

Draco had seen numerous emotions swirl in his mother's dark eyes - desperation, horror, fear, fury, determination - but he couldn't recall hopelessness like this. His nervous belly fluttered. He reached again for her hands. "Well. We shall find out together." She nodded and attempted a reassured smile. He felt the pressure of her worry too thickly. Had to escape. "I'll bathe then."

He swept from the room quickly and left a chill whirl of air in his wake. In the waft, Narcissa recognized crisp cedar and warm nutmeg. Spice and wood. The two scents as at odds with themselves as her son was with himself. As the two of them were with their situation.

With her son safely out of sight, she rubbed at her cheeks. No color appeared. "Goddess, please," she whispered. "Please help us…"

**AN: **Writing a little wing just for me, I'm afraid. Some Narco from right where my heart lives. Perfume. There will be a lot of smells in this one. And magic and smoke and smut. So tell me your favourite fragrance and I'll feature it. In this chapter? One from Hermes - Un Jardin En Mediteranee - on Narcissa. And Draco smells like Viktor & Rolf's addictive Spicebomb. Also title credit goes to Narcissa's Dragon, who apparently can't come up with titles. At least, not for her own pieces. Thank you, Dragon.


	2. Moonflower and Old Man

Moonflower and Old Man

Heavy cloaks formed blinders on the Malfoys. Narcissa looked directly ahead as they traversed the bustling cobbles of Diagon Alley. When there was even a hint of eye contact, her eyes cast downward, clocking the progress of her clicking heels. Her son kept pace beside her, hands occasionally holding to the edges of his hood.

They past busier witches and wizards in relative safety. Anonymous and hidden beneath their yards of wool and satin. At one point an overlarge wizard carrying several overlarge parcels bumped Narcissa quite violently, nearly toppling her onto rain-wet stone. Draco was quick to balance her, catching her by the elbow and sweeping her protectively into his own billow. And though his face showed his frustration, he dared not lash out at the oblivious stranger.

These Malfoys - once haughty - were cowed. Afraid to show their faces and ashamed to carry their burdensome name. And they were afraid of something more now: Fate. The inhuman and inhumane omnipotence that guaranteed them no security now. No safety. No certainty.

Narcissa had not mentioned to Draco the true possible depth of their approaching debt. Even she was unsure but knew in her coldened, hardened heart that news today would not be good. She'd spent days signing documents demanding moneys with barely a glance. Fingers numb around elegant quills.

She'd lain awake in lapsed linen luxuries worried that she would be selling the bed she slept in to fund their next breakfast. Worried her son would be sent ditch digging in desperation. She worried that the very roof over her head would be too costly to keep. That the home she loved passionately would be lost. She clutched her pillow and cried with quiet violence.

Now, dashing through the streets she feared she should accustom herself to these elements. When Draco took hold of her hand to lead her past a precarious posse of chattering Hufflepuffs, her heart fell into her stomach. He hardly deserved further punishment. Hell…neither did she.

Even inside Gringott's hallowed hall, they remained ensconced in their attire. Narcissa would forever cringe in the faces of goblins. She could feel their resentment for the woman who watched their slaughter in her home. And she didn't blame them. Fortunately today the rows of pinched faced folk worked on as she passed them with complete disregard for passing clientele.

At the security desk she was on high alert. Even Draco was tense; at the sound of a dropped galleon, he jolted. She placed a soothing hand on his thigh. It quivered like a thoroughbred's.

They handed over their wands without a word exchanged. The goblin who checked the instruments was thin and sharp, his skeletal face threatening to break skin. When he recognised the magical signatures, he gleaming black eyes hardened. "Appointment," he sneered. Reluctantly, he passed the wands back to them and snapped a frightful finger. "Through there."

Behind him, two impossibly tall doors shimmered into being and swung open with a bang. Curt nods and the Malfoys stepped through.

Only in the relative safety of their solicitor's office did the Malfoys remotely relax. Draco took his mother's cloak and hung it alongside his own on the accomodating coat rack. It clicked back to its place by the doors. Narcissa briskly cast a drying charm on her fine felt heels and stockinged calves. Draco turned, letting her cast the same charm on him. Her magic was a quick familiarity.

They straightened when another door opened, this one smaller and behind an elaborate desk. Their solicitor had entered.

He was not a goblin. Not all employed at Gringott's were goblins, after all. In fact, Solicitor Sansborough (which may have indeed been his given name) was a seemingly ancient wizard with something of an absent-minded air about him. Always.

Narcissa remembered being surprised how the old fellow functioned the first times she'd encountered him, but had been rightfully shown up. He was sharp, smart, quick and unforgiving. A Slytherin through and through.

Now, he cleared his throat and adjusted spectacles on the end of a pointed nose. "Malfoy." He opened a leather folder, unfazed when several sheets of its contents fluttered to the floor. "Ah, yes." He produced a willow wand and with a few flicks, summoned chairs for his clients and gathered his dropped parchment. "Sit."

They sat. Draco took in the solicitor with a bemused brow. Narcissa imagined he was thinking the same things she'd once thought of the antiqued wizard.

"Tea?" Without waiting for a response, another willow flick summoned a steaming silver service on a skittering spidery tray. It settled between them followed by a sailing procession of dainty cups and saucers. "Good. Good." He e sat in his own high-backed chair, unaware that there was a bit of a shoving war playing out betwixt the sugar bowl and creamer. "Much to review," he muttered. His fly-away white hair seemed to shift with its own life and finally he noticed the tumult on the tea tray.

"Here, here, here!" Sansborough blustered. He tapped his wand on his desk for attention. "Enough of that, creamy thing! You ornery bully…" The service settled again and Narcissa calmly prepared a cuppa, handed it to her son who was smirking at the disobedient dinnerware. "Lovely to see you again, Narcissa."

She smiled at him. "You, too, sir."

"Wish the circumstances were better." He peered over tiny wire frames at Draco. "I suppose this is the boy, then. All grown up. Man now. Mph. Good to meet you, Mr. Malfoy. May I call you Draco? Good. Good."

Draco was settling into the old wizard's obvious eccentricities. He liked his brusque manner and the warm, woody smell of his comfortable office. The dread he'd felt all morning began to melt away with the tea he drank. And once he saw his mother's ankles cross primly - a gesture guaranteeing her quietude - he knew all would be well.

"Much activity here from the Wizengamot and various...victims. Families of victims." Sansborough scanned documents. "Reparations. Defense fees. Fines. Reclamations. Settlements…" He huffed. "Quite a bit of debt, I'm afraid."

Narcissa licked her lips. Her skirt, slick sateen, sussed when she shifted. "Yes, I know."

"Shall I enumerate?"

"No, please." She shook her head. "Just...tell me what we shall do. What we have lost."

"Hm. Of course." He flipped pages. "Let's see. Yes. Rather a few properties were garnished. Greece." She frowned. "Paris." She winced. "The chateau in Luxembourg." Here, she visibly paled. Draco patted her hand curling over the wingback's arm. "The London townhouse."

"London townhouse?" She interrupted.

"Ah...yes." A look passed between solicitor and widow. Widow nostrils flared. Draco looked from one to the other, confused.

"I see." Her hand curled more tightly beneath his. She sniffed. "Do go on."

Sympathy flitted over wizened wizard features, but also understanding. He spared the witch further humiliation. "There is also the matter of several different Gringott's accounts garnished. Entire vaults, I'm afraid. Shall I name the benefiting parties?"

"No!" She snapped, then regained composure. "No, that shan't be necessary."

Draco could sense his mother's mounting unhappiness. Uncertainly, but respectfully, he spoke. "Sir. Is there any way you could just tell us…" He fussed for words. "Well, I suppose you could just tell us if we have anything left?"

Narcissa looked to her lap, quietly grateful for Draco's more direct approach. And Sansborough seemed to appreciate it, as well. "I can, I can, young man. Much easier in fact. Good thinking." He flipped pages. Cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. Let's see. The Wiltshire manor, estate and all therein remains in your possession, sir, per stipulation of inheritance." The Malfoys sighed in unified relief. "A combined account containing Black Family monies and possessions." He read a bit further, murmuring quietly to himself. "And yes here there's some odd instruction...let's see… Ah. Apparently there is another vault to be emptied post haste. Possessions therein shall be yours as well."

Blinks. "Is that it?" Draco asked.

Sansborough closed the portfolio. "I'm afraid so."

There was silence. The solicitor let his clients absorb their fates. "I can tell you the amount left will sustain you both for some time."

"Some time?" Narcissa asked. Ever pragmatic.

"For a year, quite comfortably." He removed his spectacles. They hovered before him as a charmed kerchief polished the lenses. "For two years, less comfortably. And even years beyond that -" The spectacles settled again on his nose "- given your level of frugality."

"Frugality," Draco repeated.

"Your advice?" Narcissa asked.

The solicitor smiled kindly. "I recommend you find some method of generating income."

"I see." Narcissa chewed at her lip. "Of course." She sighed, standing. "Is there anything else, solicitor?" At his head shake, she tried a smile. "Well, then. We shall see to emptying this mysterious vault forthwith. And...I may contact you again regarding… income generation."

Sansborough passed Narcissa a roll of parchment tied with formal black ribbon. "I am at your disposal ever, Narcissa." His dark, hooded eyes were unsettlingly sincere. "I do wish you well, my dear. You were always a most patient and...fine witch." His attentions shifted to Draco. He offered a stiff hand. Draco shook it. "Mr. Malfoy. I wish you luck, as well. Better luck than your father had." He glanced between mother and son. "I imagine the two of you will manage quite well, however, without him."

The goblin who saw them to the vault in question was as impatient as Narcissa had anticipated. But the vault was far from her expectations. Unlike the elegantly decorated Malfoy and Black vaults she was accustomed to, this one was simple. A slab of metal for a door slid noisily upward at the goblin's gnarly gesture. "A storage unit," he muttered. "Needs clearing out."

The Malfoys peered into blackness. Draco was first to draw his wand. The new rowan wood glowed brightly with his Lumos, and he was the first to bravely step inside. "Bloody hell," he whispered.

"What?" Cissa pressed to his back, peered around his slender form. She half dreaded what she might see. But… "Oh." Not disappointed, more nonplussed.

Piles of magically balanced flasks. Various sizes. Glimmering glass. Cauldrons. Some shimmery silver, others muted cast iron, porcelain or a rusted metals. Coils of copper sprouting like mad hair from the rubble. Stacks of books in various states. Boxes upon boxes of who knew what and most curiously the vials.

The vials were sized as slapdashedly as all else. Labeled carefully in different hands. Stoppered with cork, wax or screwed on lids. Shelving units full of vials, vials, vials. Agape, Narcissa drew her own wand, scanned a few shelves as her son did the same.

"Potions equipment?" Draco asked. "What the devil will we do with this mess?"

Lily. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Vetiver. Nutmeg. Vervain. Myrrh. Tuberose. Bergamot. Cypres. Cedar. Fir. Dill. Fennel. Orange blossom. Lemon. White tea. Narcissa plucked a vial labeled Moonflower and worked free the cork. She'd not moved it to her nose at all but froze just the same as some essence enveloped her. Her eyes closed as if the dark was too bright and she saw vermillion tendrils balleting against a starry backdrop. Tightly fisted spring buds popped open and a shocking silver white blossom engulfed her…

"...suppose we could donate it to Hogwarts," Draco was saying.

"No." The word was unbidden. As if she hadn't expected it to emerge. But it was firm on her lips and in her mind. Suddenly sensate, she replugged the vial.

Draco approached her and his light enveloped. Her spell had died, it seemed. "What?" He was confused.

Narcissa was not. She turned on her heel to the goblin pacing just outside. "I shall send the elf to collect it." She looked at Draco, his face screwed up by wonder. "The cellars," she told him. "I'd like it stored there for now." She tucked the vial she held into a deep pocket.

He didn't question her wishes. "Yes, mother." She was already leaving the claustrophobic confines, cloak swishing like water in his still strong Lumos. He gave the mess one more disparaging glance, then followed her.

**AN:** Sansborough is an homage to two of my favorite figures: Disney's delightful Merlin in _The Sword in the Stone_, and English actor Peter O'Toole. Rest in peace, Mr. O'Toole - though you're never dead to me.


	3. Narcissa and Narcissus

Narcissa and Narcissus

For a few days, he saw very little of his mother. They'd returned to the manor and she seemed to go into hiding. They met at meals, and occasionally, read together in the library. One such evening, he studied her.

The manor was ensconced in fluffy snow. A fire roared in the floo, casting flickering shadows about the room and filling it with the smell of hot stone and cedar aflame. Narcissa's face was intense. She read very close to her text, pale face a cast of perfect, and occasionally jotted notes on a parchment roll. The paper rolled onto the floor and Draco could see her elegant script disappearing beneath the lounge.

He set aside his own book - a barely readable adventure which had taken an unfortunate turn for the romantic - and finally cleared his throat. "Mother." Nothing. "Mother!"

"Hm?" She spared him not even a glance.

He scowled. "What the devil has you so fascinated?"

"Nothing, darling."

Draco grunted. Eyes narrowed. He watched her toes wriggle back beneath her cashmere throw. He hated being left in the dark.

When he came into the solarium for breakfast the next morning, she was already pacing there. He stopped short at the vision she created; hair a mess, satin kimono hastily tied, eyes dark with manic circles. "Mum?"

"Draco! Good." She rushed to him and he noticed her feet were bare, the bottoms dirty. "Smell this." And before he could blink concern, she thrust her wrist into his face. In fact, she bumped his nose.

"Ow!" He pulled her delicate arm back just a bit and caught his first whiff of...magic. "Ah…"

Fertile forest dirt. Moss on towering oaks and the sun flickering through a dense canopy. A cold, crisp stream strickling around his feet and those fluted white flowers dancing. Mint crumbling in warm fingers. Spice. Spring. Sweat? And somehow... _Sex_. "What…" He'd gone monosyllabic. Hadn't opened his eyes. Didn't realise they were closed.

"Is it good?"

She was a blurry nymph when he finally met her face, but the _smell _of the witch. "It's… amazing." He felt lax. Torn and desirous of something innately wrong yet brilliantly right that he couldn't quite name.

Had to be **dark** magic.

He was still holding her wrist. Still inhaling the bastard aroma. "I don't…" He couldn't seem to think, let alone form words.

She smiled. The satisfaction split her face in twain. "It _is _good! I worked on it all night! Went through several formulas before this one but _this _one!" She sighed and pulled her arm back from his slightly stubborn grasp. "This one is _right_."

With the mind-altering magic removed Draco began to process. "What is it?"

She sat to the little teak breakfast table as if she'd only been waiting for his approval and could now move on with life. As she buttered her scone and sliced her grapefruit, she explained. "The top note is violet, actually. There's a hint of white patchouli and pink pepper just to spice it up. Vervain. A heaping helping of narcissus right in the middle - " She rolled her eyes self-deprecatingly. " - because I could, really, and all piled on top of a civet musk. Also sea salt because it was just too bloody _moist _aaaaaaand…" She paused, searching her brain. "Oh, yes! Water lily." She commenced eating hungrily.

The scent lingered. A ghost clad in lust and accusation.

Draco sank into the cushioned seat across from her, regarding her as a bit of a stranger. "You made it last night?"

"Mmhm. Pass the cream, please."

His mouth worked wonder. "With the things we found in that vault?" The puzzle pieces fell into place with a loud crash.

"Mmhm."

"So…" He considered. Knew now what she'd been up to. What had held her obsession. Something like envy bubbled in his belly. "Let me smell it again." One hand holding scone to mouth, she passed her wrist back to him. This time, he smelled with purpose. Slowed the process. Instinctively, he held the scent in his sinus cavity. Let it roll over the back of this tongue into his throat.

It was heavier further up her arm and he followed the trail into the sensitive crook of her elbow. Suddenly she giggled, pulled her arm out of his grap. It was a bit of a struggle. "Tickles!"

But something in those warm earthen scents emanating from her skin had lit a fire in his groin. Unexplainable. She was mother. He couldn't reconcile that part of her with the part that smelled like something he wanted to rut in. Wanted to fuck.

He blushed hot. Felt dirty.

And she'd giggled. "Show me," he said. Decision.

"Show you what?" Uncertain. Her blue eyes were caution.

"Show me how you do it."

Another smile. The brightest one he'd seen in...ever. "Alright. After breakfast. We'll dress and I'll show you the lab."

This was most certainly become her space. Narci-space. She drew her wand as they descended the stone stairs and the wall's torches lit. Draco had always admired such magic. It spoke of command and a certain strength. These he knew his mother possessed.

In the belly of the cellar was the static tingle of fresh magic everywhere. And a lab. A proper laboratory. More fit to a potions master than to his petite and elegant mother. But undeniably impressive.

"Mum, this is incredible." Long tables that she'd collected from all over the manor were arranged pentagonally. No coincidence they aligned with the ancient pentagram chiseled into the floor. Atop the tables; cauldrons, flasks, beakers, burners, coils and baubles of all sizes. Crucibles sat like white frogs waiting for flies

There was pride in every inch of her bearing. She hopped to a seat upon a table. "Thank you."

He circled the room. Heavy oaken shelves were arranged to display scent vials in her own precise orders and a grid on the ceiling sported fresh ingredients. He fingered a hanging bouquet of verbena. "You've been in the greenhouses."

"Yes. My green thumb may finally prove useful." She gestured to the end of one table. "These were the prototypes."

He lifted one of the many vials there and sniffed. Not bad, but not nearly as insanely addictive as the brew was on her skin. "You worked all night." There were eight dismissed formulas. "Gods, mum."

Behind her, a glass orb bubbled away over a charmed burner. From the corked lid, a viscous grey fluid traveled corkscrew tube into a waiting beaker. "What's that?" He walked toward it, but her arm stopped him.

"That's a secret. For now."

He heeded her wishes. Took hold of the arm across his chest. The room was dim save for morning light filtering through the slender windows high on the walls. "Understood," he whispered. She'd donned a soft, cotton frock. Blue. Made her eyes into claxons. He pushed up the long sleeve until he exposed the skin of her inner arm. Raised it to his nose. Just one more sniff…

"Draco?"

Her voice was so quiet. A tickle in his ear. It was the sound of a white narcissus opening, in tune with the fragrance. "Yes." It was an acknowledgement of her acknowledgement, but also a loudspoken thought.

If there was more she wanted to say - to ask - she did not. She simply sat in the quiet, soft lids drooping. Accepting. The bubbling of her brew in the background. The warmth of her son's baby breath furrowing the barely hairs in her arm.

The perfume's spell was weaving its web. The dragonfly flirted with the silken strands.

**AN: **The scent Narcissa wears in this piece is indeed her own, but based on one of my current favorites - Jour d'Hermes. While, Hermes has not officially released the notes in this masterpiece, I have some pretty good ideas as to what I find in it. Next chapter we get into the more manly fragrance. Yes, Stevie - there will be bergamot.


	4. Draco and Dragon's Blood

Draco and Dragon's Blood

He dwelled all day. She'd shooed him from the lab, needing to 'concentrate' on some project. He was a little put out. Took to walking the snowy grounds. For weeks now all they'd had was each other, had _needed_ each other. But now she had this obsession. This thing. Bloody _p__erfuming__._ Or whatever it was called.

And it was captivating. Mysterious. Powerful. And not magical at all, it seemed. Simple garden flowers. Roots. Leaves and petals and oils and ground up stones… Confounding! How these things - compost - could create the addictive and necessary sin no doubt dabbed delicately on that fragile wrist.

Very clearly he saw those wrists - doll's wrists - wrapped in his own ungainly hands and thrust above her head as he himself thrust above her. He imagined her mouth; pink lips parting on a cry, opening like the flowers she boiled for their fragrance. He imagined the musk of her. Her thighs over his hips. The hot smell of her breath on his face.

He ducked into the greenhouse as though he could hide from his rampant imaginings. Leaned against the green glass door and breathed deeply. "Fuck," he whispered to himself.

She had been here. Recently. The damnable scent lingered. Here, it was at home. Her magic warmed fertile soil. The smell of leaf and bloom loomed. He could not escape. And perhaps, he considered, he didn't want to.

Wandering the rustic tables of the greenhouse he found cuttings. Discarded for whatever reason. He lifted a twine-wrapped tuft of bright green and sniffed. Mint. He squeezed the leaves, heard the stems snap and crush. The aroma became an assailant. The scents assassins to his sense.

His constitutional was not helping his condition. He stuffed the crushed mint into his pocket and made way back to the manor.

She did not appear at tea. He tossed a biscuit to his saucer. Surly.

Nor did she appear at supper. He picked at his salmon. Sullen. The bint. He pushed away from the table so harshly his chair upended. He left it for the elf and hardly noticed the crash. Snatched up a plate and a wine bottle. Enough of this.

The cellar was alight and awash with the most intriguing odor. Draco slowed when he entered it. He couldn't discern if the peculiarly strong warmth emanated from the floo or the fragrance. But closer to her workstations - all flaming, bubbling, diluting or… something - he realised the warmth came from the many burners.

"Mother?"

"What?" She stepped from behind a massive copper vapour chamber and Draco's breath caught.

It was obviously over-warm to her, as well. She'd shed more attire than a summer slag. The thin silk slip was moist with her sweat and had gone sheer in some places. He tried to avoid those places. His lip trembled with the effort. Hand holding her supper shook. "I…" His voice was quite hoarse. He cleared his throat. "I brought you something to eat."

She was too close. He stepped back. She followed, reaching for the plate. "Have I missed supper?"

"Uh…" When she took the plate, his empty hand worked. He had to physically restrain it with his other hand. He longed beyond reason to touch her.

"I'm sorry, darling." She straddled a workbench and set to work on the salmon hungrily. There was only one fork, and even though it was the _wrong_ fork, the witch soldiered on with it. She also drank directly from the bottle of sauvignon blanc.

This was how he could tell she wasn't in her right mind. Well, that and the fact her hair was an absolute mass of shocking curl and frizz. It begged for his fingers. He wandered to the table beside her, studied the copper orb with fascination. "What are you working on? You look…" Fuckable? "...bloody mad."

She was unmoved by his insult. "I'm done." She spoke with her mouthful. Wiped on her arm. "I've made you something."

"Made me something?" His hand stretched of its own accord. His fingertips barely stroked the soft cotton halo of her black/white mane.

"Yes." She turned to him abruptly, flinched when his fingers nearly poked her eye. "It's there." She nodded. "On the table. The red one."

If she noticed his hand retreating guiltily to his pocket, she didn't mention. He looked at the table she indicated. A phial - small and simple - sat waiting. The fluid it contained seemed to swirl, a red Martian dust storm captured in her genie bottle. "This?" He lifted it.

"Yes." He heard her fork drop. Heard her shift on the bench. "Smell it."

He couldn't explain his hesitation other than to say so far her creations had left him sick with incestuous lust and completely brain-addled. He worried her new obsession had made him insane.

She was frozen by anticipation. A glance showed him her glistening chest rising and falling slowly with her measured breaths. Her lips just slightly parted. She was waiting.

So he lifted the glass stopper. The cellar seemed dreadfully quiet, as if even the bubbling and hissing had stopped to witness this moment. The tiny clink of glass releasing glass was deafening.

But the scent released was a symphony. It shut his eyes and brain.

It was iron and fire. The hot earth left beneath the bonfire. The burning cedar Draco loved. It smelled like the blood he knew poured through his veins. Like the passion that flooded his gut and wanted a wrong wild-haired witch. His mouth worked complex compliments but all that emerged was: "That's good, mum."

"Do you really like it?" She took the vial. He opened his eyes to see her maneuvering it. She tugged at his arm. Shoved at his sleeve. Then her finger pressed the scent just inside his elbow. "There's a rather large lot of dragon's blood in it. I wasn't sure how…" She'd brought his arm to her nose and simply - stopped. "Uh."

Draco blinked. He'd never heard such ineloquence from his aristocratically tongued matron. "Mother?" Her warm breaths tempted the fine hairs on his arm, urged the flesh to pimple.

Her nostrils flared. Eyes narrowed. Almost angry, she pushed his arm away. "It's good, yes." She spoke hastily. Turned away in a fluster. "Works...better than I anticipated." She leaned on a nearby table, bare and sticky back facing Draco. "Go upstairs." Her shaky voice bade. "I've more work to do here."

Draco was unsettled by her abruptness. Her entire shift in demeanor. "Mother -"

"I said go!" She snapped. Her tone cracked and she put a hand to her mouth. "Take it and go. Please."

Bloody peculiar. Draco bristled. But she seemed disinclined to his furthered company. He pressed the stopper back into his fragrance and whirled away. Let her rot in her damned lab, the weird bint.

On the stairs he paused. Weird as she was, her dismissal stung. He just wished he understood...both her, and himself.

* * *

Narcissa wiped her watery eyes. Took a deep breath. There was rose tincturing, and fig leaf, vetiver and bergamot. But all she could smell was Draco.

How stupid she felt! Such a simple brew. The heavy earthy things that so spoke of Draco's secret self; cedar, fir, patchouli, black pepper, amber, teak and tonka. Cinnamon and cardamom. And the dragon's blood - a scent she'd always equated with magic and mysticism.

Always different in the bottle. So safe. So clinical. It was stupid muggle science in its purest form. Then the skin got involved. And the person inside the skin. A damnable complication. Particularly in this case. Apparently her son heated up base notes like a hellfire.

Had she outscented herself? Had she revealed so much of his secret? That last note had been something she'd not expected. Not something she'd added. Her heart hurt.

Because while she may not have harvested that particular fragrance, she knew it. It had been a ghost in her life for many years - a thing occasionally remembered, then suffering a scolding for the memory. It was a hot shameful note. A hard one to procure.

_Lust._

Perhaps she was better at this than she'd given herself credit.

A bit weak-kneed, she sank to a work bench. Was this the oddness she'd felt between them? These last weeks… Draco had seemed so distant, then too close. Or was it her?

Chewing her lip, she looked to the stairs. But again, Draco was gone. She'd sent him away, after all - too terrified of her own creation, her own burgeoning want.

_Unacceptable._

A tuft of green caught her eye. Lying on the floor a few feet away. She rose heavily, picked up the foliage. The scent hit before the sight. Mint. She looked at the crumbled leaves curiously. They were warm, oils flowing freely. Fresh from fingers or a pocket.

She looked again to the stairs. Draco. Her son. Dragon's blood lingered in his wake, moved through the mint. Her own fingers tightened on the bundle. Eyes clenched tightly.

The mint emanated brightly. Brought some brand of sense, if an uncommon one. Re-focused for the moment, she opted for distraction, and reached for a cutting board.

* * *

It was very late when she finally stumbled - utterly exhausted - to her bed. She'd decided earlier this would be the only way she would sleep. Her mind simply had to be unable to turn any further.

She was sticky with sweat and smelled like everything on earth, but she couldn't be arsed for a bath. That, she could attend to in the morning, along with the letter she intended to write to Sansborough. And the issue with Draco… Well. Perhaps in time, she could attend to that, too.

So she let her filthy slip fall to the floor and climbed naked between her cool sheets. She took her wand from the night table and fired an incendio into her floo. The lab had her overheated, but she knew the night would bring its chill. Out of habit, she lodged her wand beneath feather mattress and flopped into her pillow fortification. Sleep…

But she wasn't sleeping. She was chopping mint. Again. _Didn't I do this earlier? And why is it so chilled in the lab? _She looked down. _Oh! _She was naked. _Well. That explains the chill, I suppose._

She shrugged. Strangely comfortable preparing her ingredients starkers. So she set up a rhythm with the sharp chopping knife, and looked down at her working fingers.

"Hello, Narcissa!"

"Hm?" She paused, seeking out the tiny voice. "Oh my gods!" Knife clattered to floor and the naked witch stared - stymied - at the little pile of mint that had spoken.

The mint had spoken because its leaves had tiny faces. The furls of frond had formed eyes and mouths and they were...smiling. "Hello," they repeated cheerfully.

"I've gone mad." She muttered.

"No. You're dreaming!" The mint giggled.

"Ohhhhh," Narcissa groaned, rubbing her forehead. "That's even worse. I hate odd dreams."

"Well," the mint reasoned. "You've had worse."

She couldn't argue that logic. "True." She flapped a hand impatiently. "So what's this about then? More regrets from my youth? Another message from beyond from my dead mad sister? Or is it the other sister? How many times do I have to re-visit _that _regret?" She mostly mumbled to herself, then was struck with a particularly unsavory thought. "This isn't more of the Death Eater stuff is it? I can't take that right now."

"No, silly," the mint answered. "This is about your son! About the incest!" More tinny laughter.

"Oh, that." Narcissa sat on the bench beside the articulate foliage. "I don't really want to talk about that, either."

"Oh, come ooooon!" The mint cajoled. "We have a sooooong about it!"

"A song?!" Narcissa looked stricken. "Please gods, not a song…"

But the mint had been practicing, apparently, and would not allow its talent to languish. With a quick tuning of _mi-mi-mi-miiiiiiii_, it sang:

_Sometimes a mother has to take a little lover_

_Sometimes her lover is a gift from his father_

_And sometimes there can simply be no other_

_Fighting what you feel can make you utterly ill_

_So why would you even bother?_

The song was dreadful. The singing itself was worse. Narcissa laid her head on the table, looking away from the mint. Waiting for the dream to end...or at least the song.

_You have to let him stroke you (stroke you)_

_like a silky lap bitch_

_Let him suck you (suck you)_

_like a raw oyster from its sheeeee-eeell!_

That was enough. "Alright, that's quite enough," Narcissa announced, sitting up.

_Let him fuck you (fuck you)_

_because he'll do it weeeeeee-eeeell!_

She was scandalised. "I said that's enough!" She shouted at the mint, flushing with anger and...something else.

_Just tell him not to stop (don't stop)_

_when he pins you to the wall with his cock (with his cock)!_

"That's it!" She slapped desperate hands over the leaves, muffling their song. "You filthy little pile of shit. I'll -"

"Mum?"

She froze. Eyes bulging. The dream had turned to nightmare. "Draco?"

"Yes."

"You're behind me."

"Yes."

"Am I still dreaming?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear the mint singing?"

"I think so."

"Oh dear gods."

"Mother. Why are you naked?"

She squeezed her eyes closed, praying for this mad dream to end. "I'm not really certain."

"Hm." Then there were cool hands on her bare arse. They rubbed up and over soft flesh, cupping, til they took hold of her hips. "Convenient." The smell of hot dragon's blood enveloped her. She felt him press to her back, his lips insistent on her neck.

"Oh, Draco…" She surrendered. The mint giggled beneath her flexing fingers…

And she woke on a gasp.

"Ah!" She shot upright in her bed. Panting. Her fire had died to barely a crackle and grey morning light was cold. "Mint bastard," she whispered.

She felt hair dried to the side of her face and neck. "Disgusting." She pushed a hand into the tangled mass of frizz and stopped short. The hand smelled fiercely of mint. "Aaargh!" The witch hurled her duvet away and made naked and cold for her lavatory. A bath. Before anything else this damned day - a bath.

**AN: **Narcissa's fragrance for Draco (how disturbingly like a Nicholas Sparks book title is that?) is based strongly on the lovely HiM by Hanae Mori. A delicious woodsy, spicy, sweet and all around fucking addictive sex-in-a-bottle smell that makes me think about smut. The mint's singular serenade is by...me. Hope you enjoyed it. Next chapter is minty fresh.


	5. Mints Meet

Mints Meet

She was at dinner that evening. He was surprised, and didn't bother hiding it when he entered the dining room. "Hello." He sat to his customary place at her right hand. "I thought I would be bringing you dinner in your laboratory tonight."

"Not tonight." She was quiet. Pensive. Her chin rested on steepled fingers. "I am between projects."

"Ah." There was a rack of lamb. Mint jelly. "Any ideas stewing?"

She nodded. "A few. I think something with mint." She licked her fork. "I've been inspired."

"Huh." He didn't mention how he'd found mint rather inspiring himself, of late. In fact, he could smell the jelly on her breath and wanted to eat it from her mouth. He sniffed. "I was thinking…"

"So was I."

He blinked. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I might try my hand at...marketing my fragrances." She looked down self-consciously. "I've even written to Sansborough for his advisement."

"I see."

"Unless you think it's a wretched idea," she said quickly. Her face portrayed such naked hope.

"Not at all." He was honest. "I think the scents you've crafted so far have been...quite powerful."

"Do you?"

"Yes, mother." She smiled again. He melted again.

"Thank you, darling. Now." She slathered more mint jelly onto her lamb. "What were _you _ thinking?"

He took a deep breath. Exhaled. "I was thinking perhaps I could...help you? With the perfumes and such."

Her face - expressive as always - reached a new level of expressive. It contorted through dooms of shock and ecstasies of happy before settling on a flattering 'o' mouth and worshipful eye. "Help me?" She whispered.

He was frozen. Uncertain her final emotion. "Unless you think it's a wretched idea."

"Draco." It was definitely pleasure. Bled through in her tone and slightly curled his toes. "Of course I want your help! I would - I would _love _to have you in the lab with me." Her pretty hands fluttered. "I suppose I'm just surprised that you're interested."

He poked at a clump of mint jelly on the rim of his plate almost accusingly. "I hardly see you anymore, so…"

"You want to spend time with me?"

The wonder in her voice was nearing offensive. His forehead creased. "Of course I do, mum."

"Oh, darling." She reached for his hand. Stroked it, then blushed hotly and pulled away. "We'll go to the lab together tomorrow. Directly after breakfast. I'll show you some of my ideas and we shall...parlez."

He nodded tersely, relieved and nervous at once. "Sounds fine." He took a bite of lamb. Mint burst green and fresh on his tongue, like a cool wave breaking.

That night, Draco dreamed of mint. And his mother. _She was wearing it. Large fronds and frills wrapped her pale form skin-like, cupping and hiding her lovely breasts, curling over the daunting mystery between her thighs. She stood in the garden among the foliage, seemed to float in the flowers. So many flowers. "Hello, darling," she said softly._

_"Mother." He floated, too. Drawn to her as one is to a forbidden thing. "You...mint…" His thoughts and words didn't seem to mesh._

_"I meant what, love?" She asked, not understanding. He didn't understand, either, and if she meant love, then that was fine. She plucked a ripe fig from its dense bushy tree. She crushed it. It burst with a solid, lush tearing sound. Draco's mouth watered. "Smell." She extended the fig._

_He took her arm, used it as a bastion to step closer to her. Mint mingled with his fingers. His heat - by now palpable and strong - stirred the oils to emanate fragrance. So when his nose encountered her fruitful fingers, he smelled mint and fig and flesh. It was decadent. He closed his eyes. Birds sang. The sun was a golden orb._

_"Good?" She sounded closer. And when he opened his eyes, she was. Right before him. Eyes for the boudoir and smelling of food from the goddess' own bounty._

_"Yes, it's good," he rasped. He was compelled to taste. Licked hesitantly the tips of her fingers. She drew a sharp breath that was a knife to his groin. He groaned and pulled again. Pulled witch against him. Mint crushed. Mouths crushed. He felt fig furrow into his hair with her fingers as she held his head bent to hers._

_He was weak for her. His hands skated leaf, ripped at it, baring skin. He devoured her neck, bit at her clavicle. Her breasts tasted of mint, smelled of mint, her breath was mint and he was drowning in it. "So good," he murmured round a nipple. "So good…" She arched into the want, pressed breast further into his mouth._

_"Make love to me, Draco." A minty gasp._

_"Mmmm-mmrrm-millll," he answered, mouth full of mother and mint. "Mmmwwooma- mmsa." Her flesh was soft, dry and downy… He licked his way down, down, down…_

Down?

He spat. His mouth was full of...down. He opened his tightly shut eyes to see his pillow, gutted by his teeth. "Oh, damn," he grumbled, pushing up onto his elbows. "Ow!" His cock, hard and over-sensitive from his dream, scuffed sideways in his sleep pants. "Ugh."

He rolled. Feathers flew. He reached into his pyjamas to adjust himself, but the adjustment felt so good, he decided it would be lovely to have a wank. He took himself in hand with a moan, and revisited his dream.

Fantasy was far more fun than insubordinate dreams. In fantasy, he was in control. Laid the witch in moist spring grass and bared her to the sun and the son. He laved her body with his tongue, worshiped it with fingers. The core of her was molten. He sampled it with eager fingers and mouth, and fantasy made her loudly appreciative.

"Oh, Draco! That's perfect, darling! Wonderful!" Her thighs quivered. She pushed into his ministrations. "Oh, Draco -"

"Draco!"

"Gah!" He scrambled upright, stowed his now angry erection hastily. "What? What!" He called.

A soft knock, and then his door was opening. Narcissa appeared fresh and wakeful. "Breakfast is served," she announced. "You've overslept."

"Oh." He tried to sound nonchalant. Hoped he wasn't adversely flushed. Prayed he wasn't transparent in her eyes. "I...I'm on my way."

She smiled, leaned against his opened door. "You do still want to help me today, right?"

"Yeah! Yes." He swung out of bed, turned away from her. "I'll just shower and make my way down. Not really hungry." He glanced at her over a bare shoulder. She was staring, but not at his face. "Mum?"

"Hm?" She shook herself. "Oh. Right. Of course." Her hand worked beneath her chin, making some dismissive gesture. "I'll be in the lab, then." She scurried out, the hem of her frock catching in his closing door.

For some reason, she was nervous. She knew this because of the pixies fluttering in her stomach, and the fact that she kept touching things in the lab. She didn't understand her nervousness, but it was there. No. She _did_ understand it. Just didn't want it to be there.

She'd seen it. It was clear as the day in his thin cotton sleep pants.

Her son had an erection.

Her lip hurt from chewing it.

This was the damn mint's fault. All that bloody singing… She rubbed at her head. Moved another crucible an inch to the left.

And now he would be here with her. In this space she'd created for herself. Her lab. With all the scents that made him him. _Perhaps this is a wretched idea, after all. _For a manic moment, she considered calling it off. Disassembling the little workspace she'd created for him and telling him she'd changed her mind. Sending him off to France. _Or I could go to France, myself! Yes, France! I could disguise myself as a muggle perfumer. Muggle perfumers love France. France is where all muggle perfumes are created. The French are mad for fragrance! I could -_

"Where do we start?"

She whirled. Draco stood just behind her. Dressed. The erection no longer...erect. She brought her eyes back to his face and her sick libido under control. "Er…" She cleared her throat. "I've made a place for you. Here." She touched the table. "I'll show you how I've charmed the equipment. Then, we'll just...brainstorm some ideas and...make a perfume."

"Mint."

"Mint?" He'd spoken so decisively. She was taken aback.

"Yes." He nodded. Made his way to her ingredients cabinet and began scanning labels. "And fig."

She went to stand beside him. "Fig?" She'd not imagined. "Together?"

"Yes." He grabbed a jar. "Is there fig? And perhaps even rose. But definitely mint. And fig." He was already making way to his table.

"I- I don't have any fresh fig on hand, but -"

"There's that fig tree in the gardens."

"Yes, but it's dormant right now, darling. All I have is an extract."

"Let's have it, then."

She went to another cabinet, watched him preparing his station. He seemed unsettlingly confident. She handed him the jar of extract and he popped the cork quickly. Held it beneath his nose beside the jar of mint and breathed. "Yes."

"Yes?"

He held the jars out to her. She took them. Breathed, eyes never leaving his until they had to close. "Oh…" It was the most unexpected and pungent combination she'd ever imagined. Bright and dark at once. Encompassing. Edible. Challenging. It enveloped her. "Draco," she whispered.

"I know." She looked at him. His eyes were soft. So very sweet. "Tell me what to do with it. Tell me what else it needs."

Her mind worked. His fervor was contagious. She went back to the cabinet. Vetiver. Amber resin. She pulled jars from dry storage. Pink pepper. Patchouli. Cedar shaving. He took jar by jar from her warming hands, popping corks until the aroma around the table slowed time and stopped the perfumers.

They stared again. Smiled slowly. Awakened by the creature they'd conceived together. "Is this it?" Draco asked excitedly.

"I think so." Narcissa nodded.

"Me too." He looked at their ingredients. "Alright. Let's make a perfume."

It was hours before they had a prototype. It was a darling thing comprised of spearmint, sweet mint, rose, fig and pure delight. Complex and earthy. Rich and decadent. They smelled it directly from its vial, slowly warming and rolling the scent on their palates, letting it rest in their sinuses.

"Draco, I think it's brilliant," Narcissa murmured.

"Try it on." He thrust the vial at her. "Then we'll know."

She extended her wrist. Draco took the delicate thing. Held it steady as he drew the glass applicator from the vial. A tink, and she felt the cool oily substance meet her skin.

The result was immediate. A subtle, violent blow to the face. "Oh my," she said.

Draco said nothing. His nostrils flared. The warmth of her skin heated the oils, the musks. Upset them. Disturbed the ingredients and encouraged them to stir. Made magic where there was no magic. The man and his mother froze in its presence. Breathing. Mystified. Neither aware how close they stood to each other.

Or how the heat that daunted them was as much a product of their own design as the fragrance that consumed them now. Minds met. Fingers brushed as the vial exchanged hands.

Draco drew the applicator down her neck. Narcissa shivered from the contact. He drew it down over her clavicle, through the occipital dip, as far into the 'v' of her cleavage as her dress would allow.

Her shiver became a quiver. Anticipation set her muscles on edge. "Draco," she whispered.

Still wordless, he set the vial aside on his table. And before there could be thought, flight or fight, he pulled her close. Pressed his face into the curve of her neck and inhaled the perfection of her flesh and their creation intermingled.

Narcissa gasped at the sudden embrace. Her body tensed, then surrendered. Toes curled in her slippers. Softly, Draco moaned in the crook of her neck. "Oh…" She murmured. Her throat felt tight. Gooseflesh erupted over her skin. Her son's lips chased her pulse up, up across her jaw, her cheek until…

They kissed.

It seemed the simplest of things. But like their perfume, it was not. They melted together, pale and cold as snow. Narcissa yielded and Draco took, tasted her mouth, her whimpers, her spit.

The sound of their breaths. The sound of their lips moving wetly. The bubbling of a brew in the background. The tinkling of a tincture. The strange silence of something happening.

Even their parting made a noise of regret. Of release. Their eyes met. Mints mingled. Malfoys.

"Draco…" Her forehead creased. She'd not left her toes.

He touched her face. Wonder. "Narcissa…"

And then the sound of a door opening.

**AN:** The fragrance we see Narcissa and Draco create together here is based loosely on Balenciaga's lovely Rosabotanica. I adore it.


End file.
